Pearl and Hermes continued

Here is a satellite view of Pearl and Hermes Atoll, where we've been hanging out for the past wek and a half. The "atoll" is sort of a confusing concept, and indeed I did not completely grasp the concept myself until I came up here and saw it first-hand. I know my explaination of an atoll to mom left her a little hazy.. So, since I mention it so often in this blog, I'll just try to give you an idea of what I'm talking about. An atoll is this: It is what remains of a high, volcanic island (just like the main Hawaiian islands), after the island has completely subsided into the sea. The barrier reef that forms around that high island is all that is left- a ring of coral. Because coral is alive, and constantly depositing its calcium carbonate skeleton, the coral reef builds upon itself and stays close to the surface of the water as the rocky part of the island sinks/erodes below sea level. This ring of coral is an atoll. The atoll is not in itself an island, but there are usually spots along the ring of coral reef that accumulate sand and become islands. (Otherwise known as motus). In the case of Pearl and Hermes, the atoll is approximately 15 miles across at its widest and has 7 islands scattered around the periphery, most of them low sandspits. In the center is the lagoon, which is a mishmash of deep pools, sand-channels and patch-reefs. We call this the maze, because the patchreef can be too shallow to drive a boat over, and it weaves in and out and all over the place. I'm sure you can see this by the photo...

Today brought a small hiatus from the usual debris work. My boat team was assigned to place some substrate-mounted oceanography equipment at several sites on the south side of the atoll. We placed three "STR"s (subsurface temperature recorders) on the bottom at various isobaths (45 and 75 ft.) on the forereef. These STRs are nicknamed the "pipebombs of science" because they look and feel like homemade incindiary devices. After navigating to the GPS point where the old STR had been placed, we donned our scuba gear and went down to swap it out with a brand new one. (They stay in place for a year or more, and record temperature vs time data). The method for attaching these devices to the reef is, as you'd expect, very high tech.......: zip-ties. We would find a little archway or hole in the reef that we could get our fingers through, and zip-tie the heck out of it until the thing looked like a little kid had gotten his hands on it. Because I am only a rookie NOAA scientific diver, I was not allowed to dive past 60 feet, and thus only got to do one dive at the 45 ft isobath. The dive started off great, with visibility that was mind-blowing. I'm going to put myself out on a limb and say that is was quite possible that there was 200 feet of vis in this particular spot... With about 50 big uluas circling us the whole time, 3 Galapagos sharks, and one friendly whitetip, the wildlife was pretty good too. (Oh yeah, and I saw a masked angelfish there too- quite rare). My dive buddy Kevin Lino and I got to the bottom and immediately started to work- he at cutting the old STR off the reef, and me at screwing stuff up... We had a reel with a line on it that led to a surface float (our boat did not anchor because the swells were pretty big, and thus needed a marker of some kind to circle around while we were submerged). The reel was malfunctioning and would not lock, so I began trying to fix it. While I was doing this, the digital camera that I had around my wrist worked its way loose, and unbeknownst to me, rocked to the surface. We needed the camera to take shots of the STR serial number, depth, and surrounding area. So, when I went to go for the camera, it was gone. I communicated this to Kevin with hand signals, and he signaled back that he would go to the surface and look for it while I mounted the new STR. I busied myself with the zip-ties, but felt like banging my head against the reef. Luckily, our other two team-members on the boat had spotted the camera when it hit the surface and saved my ass from making a $400 mistake... It could've been easily missed too- rough water, big swells, lots of wind, near the surf-zone.. Anyway, I finished mounting the STR, completely oblivious to the shark that Kevin told me later was making close passes at the back of my head. Kev joined me on the bottom and we gathered up our gear. That done, we began our ascent. Our required 5 minute safety stop at 15 feet allowed for a good chance to chill out and watch all the fish circling us, mostly big uluas. For those of you that don't have a clue what an ulua is, here is a picture of one for you. They are also known as jacks. Up here, they get up to around 100 pounds and can be as big as I am. They like to come in close and bite shiny things. Susie, one of my boat crew, was bit on the hand two days ago by a curious (stupid) ulua.

After checking out the wreck, we headed to southeast island to pick up some land debris. As the third island that I've been allowed to set foot upon during this cruise, southeast island is much different from the other two (Green island at Kure, and Laysan Is). It is very low (perhaps only 5-6 feet above sea level, and very small (only 400 meters long perhaps). It is vegetated in two distinct patches with grasses and low-lying coastal plants. An even lower sand-spit connects the two vegetated patches, and apparently during storms or excessively high tides, is awash. The backside of the island has a small stagnant lagoon of turbid turqois bordered by beach-rock shelves. Three people from the NOAA protected species division are camped out there for the duration of the monkseal pupping season. One of them is Kevin L's roommate from back on Oahu, so we stayed and chatted it up with her for a while. I perused her collection of glass fishing floats and monk seal skulls while the endemic finches hopped around at my feet.

In general, operations have been going really well and we've been bringing in a ton of debris. Our cargo container on the back deck of the ship was long ago filled to the brim, and now we've resorted to just piling it up the the deck anywhere we can find space. Needless to say, things aren't smelling all that good right now. Our four boats have been consistently bringing in 300-600 kilos per boat per day, and it stacks up quick.

Three days ago, our boat team had a most amazing day of towing, apparently the best Kevin L. has ever seen in his 4 years doing debris. We were assigned an area of the backreef on the southwest side of the atoll. It was crisscrossed with deep channels, cliffs, overhangs and other cool features. In places there was up to 90% coral cover- mostly montipora capitata/flabellata (rice corals) in whites, pinks and neon purple, and Pavona duerdeni (pork-chop coral) in brown. The fish were out of this world, and I saw more new species than I'd ever encountered before- Japanese angelfish, cardinalfish, etc. There would be grey reef sharks around every turn, and of course the ubiquitous uluas.... Not to be too cheezy or anything, but the towboarding was like a Disneyland ride- swooping down into deep ravines, pulling hard turns under the overhangs, coming in low to the deck and then shooting up over ledges. Kinda like that scene in Star Wars where Luke is driving the X-wing through all those channels in the surface of the Death Star and then dives into the center of the thing to blow it up..... Yeah...

We didn't really find any net there, but had a heckuva good time. That, of course, was the one day we forgot to put a battery in the camera, so it will remain a fond memory locked up only in my brain, as it probably should be anyway...

Pearl and Hermes

Friday, July..... sorry, August 3rd (?) finds us finishing our 6th day of operations at Pearl and Hermes Atoll. To my numerous readers who have an affinity for the finer things in life, Hermes is not pronounced "Heir-mais", but is instead a good old American "Her-meez".....

Named for the two whaling ships the "Pearl" and the "Hermes" that were dashed to pieces on the reef here in 1822, the atoll is the third furthest north in the Hawaiian chain. The crews of both ships managed to swim to one of the low sandy islands that rim the atoll, and survived there on fish, seabirds and rainwater for perhaps a year. The shipwrights among the crew spent that time salvaging lumber from the wrecked ships and over the course of the year, constructed a new ship on the beach. They then sailed the new boat down the chain to Honolulu as if it were no big deal... Coincidentally, the wrecks of both the Pearl and the Hermes were discovered by marine debris divers in 2003 while towboarding a section of reef near southeast island. Anchors, bronze pots for separating whale oil, keel bolts, etc were found in about 15 feet of water. The discovery of the ships sent a shockwave through the maritime archeology community. (I'm not sure how well a shockwave travels through a medium that consists of perhaps 7 crusty old men) But regardless, the two ships are the only two of their kind ever to be found. We're hoping for a quick dive on the wrecks one of these days after work.

Before I launch into sappy descriptions of how amazing the reefs are up here at P&H, I'll give you all a breakdown of a typical day in the life a marine garbageman. Here goes:

I wake up to my roomate Steph's alarm clock at 6:15. (I forgot to bring an alarm) Usually I don't hear the alarm, but wake to the sound of him brushing his teeth, or in the case of this morning, Steph mumbling "I wanna shoot myself". Steph is a French-Canadian who has been doing marine debris for about five years. I hop out of bed, usually feeling very refreshed due to the excess of blood that has been pooling in my brain for the past 8 hours. (Our 220 foot ship has had a rather alarming list since day four- the average angle of my bunk is about 5 degrees to port). I asked the captain about the list the other day at dinner and he mumbled something unintelligible about "engineers, burn plans, fuel...hhfmmffrabehl..." Rumor has it that not even he knows why we're listing.. whatever, at least we're not sinking.

As I was saying, I hop out of bed- perhaps hop is not the word. Being that I have the top bunk and the bunk has no ladder, I feel for the corner of the desk with my toe and balance precariously on it while I worm my way around my privacy curtain in the very narrow space between my mattress and the ceiling. That done, I go to my locker and put on my Crocs (shoes made of rubber). I've slept in my clothes, so there is no need to change. I open the door and head aft out into the hallway. It is still pitch dark outside and I feel my way out onto the winch-deck to begin my duties of the morning. Breakfast is served at 7:00, but we prep our boats and gather all our gear before eating. One day I'll have avon duty and the next I'll have gear duty. Avon duty consists of checking the air pressure in all the pontoons' chambers, priming the fuel lines, testing the radio, making sure the tarp and cargo net are all in place and ready to recieve our glorious payload (debris), and making sure the crane straps are all clipped in to the appropriate D-rings.. Our gear consists of: an emergency oxygen kit, a small "pony bottle" scuba tank and regulator (for freediving emergencies), a cooler full of all our lunch-making materials, and two pelican cases full of spare parts, emergency equipment, first aid, tools, backup radios, etc. Also included are two GPS units and an underwater camera. After the avon is checked and all the gear is staged in the "longline pit" (the lowest part of the ship where there is a cutout in the railing), we go eat. The galley is a room about the size of your average elementary school classroom, but with ceilings that are just a little over head-high for the average midget. Clem, the chief steward, reigns over the galley with a glorious fist. She is an older Samoan woman who definitely knows that food is the single most important part of one's life, and without a doubt loves to sample her own wares. If I were not burning so many calories holding my breath underwater all day, I would have turned soggy around the middle long ago under the Clem's watchful eye. It's not that the food is unhealthy, it's just that it is SOOO GOOOD and there are so many choices and so much of each dish, that I cannot help but stuff my face just so I can get a taste of everything she has put out. Roast duck, veal, lamb shanks, fresh ahi and ono (which the crew catch almost daily but sadly I cannot eat), and the world's most amazing paniolo cornbread. Mike, the second steward, is a world-class baker and usually sabotages any effort I make to eat healthily by placing a tray of pastries at the end of the buffet at EVERY meal.... Both are two very friendly, agreeable people.

With breakfast done, a small-boat safety meeting is called at 7:30 with everyone in attendance. Because the NOAA corps are really a non-militant branch of the military, (proudly advertized on the new NOAA corps license-plate frames : "Our nation's 7th uniformed service" ??!) everything is very punctual onboard the ship. Let us be very clear right now that I am not a part of the NOAA corps- that is the officers of the ship only. They have a 5 year committment and live on the ship full-time. I am but a NOAA "scientist" who gets the pleasure of being a "guest in their home" during the research cruises.

The small boat safety meeting consists of the usual mumbo-jumbo about always wearing your hardhat when the cranes are turned on, keeping your life jacket zipped up, be careful when climbing down the boarding ladder, etc. Same authoritative spiel every day, given by the ship's diminutive safety officer. Then we break into our teams, four teams of four, and get ready to load the avons. One by one they are winched from their places on the boat deck and craned over the side of the ship. Once they're in the water, we climb down a rope ladder that is thrown over the side and down into the boat. Then all our gear is handed down to us by the crew of the ship. This part can be quite comical. Imagine trying to stand up in one of those bumper-car rides you find at the fair... The open ocean waves are yanking the avon around and beating it against the hull of the ship, yanking it to the end of its bow/stern lines and back again. I slipped on my arse the other day trying to unload gear. There was an adendum to the safety meeting the next morning about "taking your time while loading the boats so as to avoid slipping on your arse and falling into the gap between the avon and the ship and having your head squished like a grape...."

Once everything and everyone is in the boat, we radio the bridge and let them know we're departing the side of the ship. The ship draws 15 feet of water, so it always stays outside the atoll in depths greater than 60 feet. We then set our GPS course to the nearest boat pass (a deepwater gap in the barrier reef that will allow small boats to make it through the surf into the interior lagoon). We'll have pre-designated coordinates already uploaded to our GPS that will take us to our survey site for the day. If the survey site is in the center of the lagoon, ("the maze" as we call it for the maze of patchreefs and sand-channels that crisscross the interior) we do swim surveys. Basically this just means you have a designated section of patch-reef to survey for debris, and you snorkel all around it until you've covered the periphery. If the survey site is on the backreef (the inside margin of the barrier reef ), then we towboard back and forth across the site with 15 meter buffers between each track line. Towboarding is incredibly fun. If you're in deep water, our 50 foot towlines will allow you to dive on your board to about 25 feet before you bottom out. They're pretty easy to maneuver and you can easily swoop and dive between coral heads with only inches to spare. If we find a net on the bottom, we come to the surface and signal the boat to stop with a clenched fist in the air. The boat then circles back, drops the pony bottle in the water in case one of us gets tangled in the net and needs a breat underwater, and holds station while the two divers in the water cut the net off the reef. When the net has been freed, the divers usually lug the net over to the side of the boat, trying not to be tugged under by the waterlogged clump of nastiness that usually has several good-sized dead coralheads wrapped up in it. We take a bunch of data on the size of the net, color, if there are coral recruits growing on the net, substrate type, etc, then the two people in the boat don their gloves and haul the net in over the side. This can be a big job. We had one conglomeration a few days ago that was so big that we had to call another team over to help us get it into the boat. All eight of us strained for 15 minutes- tying bracing lines, tightening knots here or there, setting up parbuckles, etc. When finally got it in and took it back to the ship and weighed it, the darn thing came in at a whopping 400 kilos (880 lbs). That was after all the water had drained out of it....

We have very important roles within our boat teams, which we constantly switch off several times a day. There are two divers in the water looking for net. There is one coxswain to drive the boat, run the GPS, tilt the engines when needed, and haul in the towlines. And then there is the spotter, whose sole job consists of watching the two divers in the water to make sure there are no big biting creatures following along at their fintips. We take these roles very seriously- Not once has the spotter been caught yapping to the coxswain, looking the other way at the beautiful lagoon, mooning the other boats, kicking back on the pontoon soaking up rays, etc. We're always in good hands.

After a 3 hour morning session of towboarding or swim surveys, we anchor up for lunch. The lunch spot is usually in a place that also provides for great freediving (aka outside the atoll on the fore-reef) Several lunches now I have spent diving, not eating. Who's going to waste their time eating when you're in a place like this?

Lunch is followed by another three hour intensive afternoon tow. Of course, no one person is in the water for more than 1.5 hours at a time because we switch off. Every half hour the coxswain (driver of the avon) must radio the ship to check in and to relay who is in and out of the water at that time. The crew is pretty laid back (minus the captain) and so the radio chatter is, needless to say, informal. Ehhhmm. Don't make the mistake of radioing in your bottom-of-the-hour check-in in the voice of Borat, Kazahkastani reporter, when the captain himself has replaced the lowly radio-operator unannounced. ....crickets.

Around 4:00 we start making our way back to the ship. Depending on where our site is for that day, it may be as much as 10 kilometers away. When the boats are fully laden with debris, they do not move all that fast, and prior planning must come in to play if you are to make it back to the ship in time for dinner. Our boss loaded his avon with 1,016 kilos of debris a couple days ago (more than a ton- keep in mind these boats are only 16feet long). They had to transfer all the gear and people to another boat, and run the engines in tilt at low speed to avoid submarining the bow. Took em about an hour to go 5 km.

When we get back to the ship, it is usually a traffic jam with ourselves and four other boats waiting to be hoisted aboard. Yesterday somebody squirted more mayo in the water while waiting, and attracted the usual Galapagos sharks. Though it was against the rules in such close proximity to the ship, I managed to convince my crew leader to let me dive in for a quick swim. A couple came in to check me out pretty close and I got some good pics. An ono swam by too, which was the first time I'd seen one while in the water. Ugly fish I gotta say. We see gray reef sharks and whitetip reef sharks every day while towing, but you don't see the Galapagos sharks until you get into deeper water outside the atoll.

When our boats have been hoisted aboard ship and all the gear is rinsed and put away, we head in for dinner. After completely stuffing myself, I head upstairs to the computer lab to enter data or attempt to learn some of the more advanced GIS stuff. When I say advanced I mean "very elementary", but more involved than downloading waypoints....

Then it is usually a shower and maybe a movie in the "theater". Tonight we watched "The 40 Year Old Virgin" in the total comforting embrace of 70's-vintage vinyl recliner chairs. Oftentimes, during movie hour (and somehow it seems like ONLY during movie hour), the crew decides to conduct a CTD (lowering a temperature and salinity guage over the side to 500 meters). In order to lower the probe at the proper angle, they person at the helm must maneuver the ship constantly, using the main engines and the bow thruster to do so. It just so happens that the movie theater is located in the bow, directly above the bow thruster. To say that the bow thruster is noisy would be a rediculous understatement. When that incredible piece of machinery is engaged, it feels as if the ship has just charged fullsteam into a field of icebergs. The entire massive structure of the ship begins to shake, vibrating our beautiful flat-panel plasma screen on the wall of the theater. I have visions of entire thousand-head herds of wildabeasts stampeding their way up the narrow ladder from the engineroom, bellowing mightily, with frothy rabies-laden sputum streaming from their nostrils. The volume on the TV goes all the way up to 90 clicks and still you struggle to discern diologue. The crew tells us that there has been some damage to the bow-thruster, in fact asking one of our divers to go under and take some photos of the darn thing yesterday. Judging by the noise it makes, I would hazard a guess that perhaps it is missing one of the propellor blades, or that perhaps a whale of some kind has become lodged inside the apparatus.

To end my day, I check my email, or read a book in my bunk. The ship, meanwhile, is steaming around aimlessly all night, making laps around the atoll, or circling certain seamounts that the crew loves to fish. I think they do this so that the motion of the boat is more comfortable for sleeping. If we were to stay in one spot all night, it would get pretty rolly I would guess. And of course, because no ship is allowed to anchor in the national monument anymore....

That's it. It's time for bed. Now you know what the glamorous life of a marine garbageman consists of! More on the beautiful atoll of Pearl and Hermes later.